


Press A to Continue

by jumpthisship



Series: Press Start To Play [2]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, and I promise they get a happy ending, and these boys are in love, fear not for there are still SMOOCHES, if you made it through PSTP you can make it through this, read the original fic first!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 05:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18910417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpthisship/pseuds/jumpthisship
Summary: Chanyeol's time inParandid many things to him. Not all of them were bad.





	Press A to Continue

**Author's Note:**

> additional (spoilery) warnings in the end notes!

A year and a half after Chanyeol’s successful completion of _Paran_ , Kyungsoo still doesn’t live with Chanyeol, but he does spend the night at his house a few times a week. Which is super nice. No complaints there. Chanyeol is a huge cuddler, so he loves having another body in his bed with him, especially when that body is small and warm and his boyfriend whom he loves very much. Kyungsoo sometimes complains about the state of Chanyeol’s bedroom floor, which is often covered in clothes from several days ago, and Chanyeol sometimes overheats at night because Kyungsoo cranks up the thermostat whenever he comes over, but overall, it’s a very nice arrangement. 

The only thing that sometimes makes Chanyeol regret asking Kyungsoo to stay the night is that morning is generally the most common time for them to argue, because Kyungsoo isn’t a morning person at the best of times, and Chanyeol is less capable of watching his mouth before noon. 

He’s slogging through his cereal on a December Monday morning, bleary-eyed and grouchy (because waking up next to Kyungsoo is still great, but no longer enough to stave off Monday morning blues), and because he hates getting up early for work and because he’s an idiot, he says, “Man. I can’t believe I still have to do this shit after saving a goddamn world. I mean, really. I demand a refund.” He pauses, then adds, “Of 6,000 won, if I go by how much I paid for that game.”

He shouldn’t say anything, because Kyungsoo is at the counter making coffee, and he woke up with bags under his eyes and a dark expression on his face, and Chanyeol should know better by now. But he says it, and Kyungsoo doesn’t even look at him as he snaps, “Yeah, super funny Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol frowns across the table at him, brows furrowing. “What’s wrong?” he asks, maybe a little too sharply. 

Kyungsoo’s shoulder jerks, and he doesn’t turn. “Nothing, I just love you making jokes about the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

“Soo,” Chanyeol says reproachfully. “It’s not like it was exactly sunshine and roses for me, either, you know.”

Kyungsoo pivots on one foot and leans against the counter, tired eyes fiery. “Well, you sure act like it.”

“Soo, how can you _say_ that?” Chanyeol asks, incredulous. “You were _there_. You _saw_ how hard it was for me.” 

“And you saw how hard it was for me!” Kyungsoo says immediately, voice rising. “And yet here you are, laughing about it, like it was all a fun little game.” 

Chanyeol scoffs, dropping his spoon back into his bowl. “Well what am I supposed to do? Think back on it with horror for the rest of my life?” 

“Yeah, basically!” Kyungsoo gestures emphatically with his mug of coffee, and a little spills over the edge.

“I don’t want to! That’s how I handled my dad’s death for years, and it was _awful._ You’re studying therapy, Soo, you know a coping mechanism when you see one.” Chanyeol looks away from him, stares hard at his cereal. 

“You _always_ bring your dad into it.” Chanyeol can hear the eye-roll in his voice, if that’s possible, and it makes annoyance flare in his chest. 

“Of course I do, it was a traumatic incident! It’s affected my life a lot!” 

“Yeah, well you know what was traumatic in _my_ life? Being sucked into a fucking video game!” Kyungsoo pushes off the counter, but doesn’t step closer. 

“I know, Kyungsoo!” Chanyeol says, looking up again. “I was there!” 

“For _two weeks_ , Chanyeol. I was there for two _years_.” 

“You think I don’t know that? I _know_ it was worse for you, Soo. But it was hard for me too.” Chanyeol grits his teeth together. “It’s still fucking hard for me.” 

“Well you sure don’t act like it!” Kyungsoo spits.

Chanyeol takes a deep breath, clenches his jaw, and looks away again. He hates yelling. It makes his head hurt, and it always ruins his entire day. “You’re upset,” he says, lowering his voice pointedly. 

“Yeah, I’m upset!” Kyungsoo says, and his eyes are wet and his expression is fracturing when Chanyeol looks at him again. Chanyeol wants to hug him, except he’s angry and Kyungsoo is being ridiculous and mean and he’s clearly not in a comforting mood. 

“I’m going to go to work,” Chanyeol says, stony-faced, standing up abruptly. He dumps his soggy cereal down the drain and throws the dishes into the sink, then walks quickly to his room and puts on his clothes. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. He fucking _hates_ fighting. 

It’s still fifteen minutes earlier than he usually leaves for work when he comes back from brushing his teeth, but he’s not going to stick around. Kyungsoo’s still standing in the kitchen when he walks by, face set in a carefully blank expression that Chanyeol can see right through. Chanyeol sighs, wanting to reach out for him but knowing he probably shouldn’t. Instead, he just presses a gentle kiss to his boyfriend’s temple as he passes—a fond, familiar gesture that Kyungsoo doesn’t react to. He just remains frozen, and Chanyeol swallows his instinctive _I love you._ Kyungsoo would probably bite his head off if he said it. 

His drive to work is longer now, since he got a new job just out of Seoul, but he hasn’t had the heart to move farther away from Kyungsoo and his family. He pulls onto the freeway and uses that extra commute time to mull over their argument, still fuming a little but also trying to figure out where he went wrong, what started this mess of a day. He’s sure everything was fine last night. Kyungsoo’s been tired recently, stressed out over the part-time therapy courses he’s taking so he can get registered, looking like he hasn’t slept much whenever Chanyeol sees him, which is a lot. He’s been on a shorter fuse than usual for a while now. Chanyeol should ask him what’s wrong, _really_ ask him, before he’s already upset, and stick through it even if Kyungsoo snaps at him. 

Kyungsoo’s first reaction to his own weakness is always to be defensive. Chanyeol knows that. He knows that Kyungsoo hates that he had to be saved, and that he thinks he did so little when they were in the game, even though he was incredibly vital to Chanyeol beating it. Their relationship has been mostly good for the past year and a half—mostly _great_ —but the majority of their rough patches have revolved around Kyungsoo’s defensiveness, and Chanyeol’s insensitivity. In general, every argument ends with Kyungsoo telling him to forget about it, and Chanyeol agreeing because he doesn’t want to fight anymore. 

But maybe that should change this time. Chanyeol really wants to figure things out. If Kyungsoo is having problems, then Chanyeol wants to help him with them, like Kyungsoo has helped him through so much. 

Chanyeol sighs, merging into the left lane of the freeway to get out from behind a slow-moving truck. It’s been snowing since last night, and the roads are a bit slick, but not _that_ slick. 

He’s halfway to work, still brooding, when he looks ahead on the road and sees a bus swerving on the other side of the center turn lane. His fingers tighten on the wheel and he slows down slightly, but the bus is still pretty far away. He watches it with rapt attention, but to his relief it returns to its own lane, and he relaxes. An ice patch, maybe. Chanyeol will have to watch out for it when he gets that far. 

And then the bus gets closer, just ahead of him, and suddenly it swerves again, jerking fast across the turning lane and hitting the car just in front of him. Chanyeol slams on his brakes and instinctively tries to swerve around it, but the roads are just that little bit slippery, and the vehicle behind him crashes into him with a horrifically loud sound and a painful jarring of his car. The back of his car fishtails, and then everything is loud and painful and his airbag inflates, obscuring his vision, and Chanyeol doesn’t know what’s happening. His stomach lurches, he hears tires screeching, and glass shattering, and Chanyeol has vivid flashbacks of crashing his aircraft into the parliament building in Paran’s capital city. Fire and smoke and Kyungsoo behind him. He has to check on Kyungsoo.

It takes him several moments to force his eyes open again, though, and when he does, it takes him another few long seconds to realize he’s upside down. Groaning, he pushes at his airbag, heart still rabbiting but his mind focused. He looks back, unable to stop himself, but all he sees is the crumpled backseat of his car. It’s still a relief. 

He feels bruised and battered, and when he yanks off his seatbelt and drags himself out of his shattered window, he feels glass bite into his palms and through the fabric of his jeans, making them bleed. His head feels okay, though, just a little rattled, and his neck hurts from whiplash. He drags himself a few meters away from his car and throws up on the asphalt, the shock and acrid smell of smoke and the roll of his car apparently too much for his stomach. 

He doesn’t feel that scared, or even that stunned. His head is spinning, not just from his tumble, but with instinctive thought processes. _What’s next,_ his mind says, still conditioned to plan ahead after all this time. _What’s the next step, what do I do now, what’s my strategy._ He shakes his head to clear it. He’s not in a game. He was just in a car crash. 

It’s cold outside, bitingly cold, and Chanyeol closes his eyes and does a quick mental check of his limbs. Nothing feels broken or anything, just a little bleeding, but adrenaline might be keeping the real pain at bay. He tries to breathe slowly, tries to fight the instincts screaming at him to check his HP, check his initiative, his _injured_ timer. How long it’s going to take him to recover, if he has a boost on him, if he has to check for other immediate dangers. If Kyungsoo is okay. 

This still happens so automatically. Every time he’s in a stressful situation, this mindset comes back. He can’t escape it. How could Kyungsoo ever ask him to stop talking about the game, when the game has become a part of him? He thinks about it every day. Has nightmares about it often. Fighting, and bleeding, and fire, and crashing, and dying. Him dying, the others dying, Kyungsoo dying. 

Where’s Kyungsoo? He’s not here. Good. 

“Get up,” a voice says, and Chanyeol looks up at last to see a gun pointing at his face, a man in a mask behind it. Abject terror seizes him, squeezing his heart, but his mind continues to process things logically, calmly. This isn’t the first time he’s stared down the barrel of a gun. Not even the second or third. He’s scared, but something inside him says _You can handle this._ And he can. 

He lurches to stand, but his movement must take the gunman by surprise, because he brings the butt of his gun down on Chanyeol’s skull with ruthless ferocity. Chanyeol collapses immediately, vision hazy. He feels a cruel kick to his head, and Chanyeol thinks, _I’m glad Kyungsoo isn’t here._ Then he blacks out.

~~

Mornings used to be worse for Chanyeol. He used to spend several minutes every single day right after he woke up wondering where he was, why he didn’t have his armour on, why Kyungsoo wasn’t with him. It always took him a few minutes of utter panic to realize he was in his house, his own bed, and that the biggest peril of the day would be picking up the phone at work. He knew that, he repeated that to himself over and over. And still, he’d jerk awake at the sound of his alarm clock, sitting bolt upright in bed, breath coming fast, reflexes preparing him to be attacked.

But Chanyeol’s worst moment had struck him at night, when his room was still dark around him. He still doesn’t know what woke him that night—a nightmare, maybe, judging by the way he’d wrenched himself out of sleep with a muffled cry, sweating profusely, stomach turning. And his instincts were already kicking in, fighting his covers away from him, rolling onto the floor, fear coiling in his gut as he felt his own vulnerability. No armour, no weapons, no helmet. “Soo,” he said hoarsely into the blackness, hands grappling for something he could use to protect himself, anything. Something creaked around him, and his heart rate jumped, pounding, sweat dripping down his back. The walls were closing in on him, the darkness was smothering him, suffocating him. He needed to protect himself, he needed to not die. He couldn’t die. 

He scrambled back into his bed, back against the wall, a position of defense; breath coming in short gasps, eyes scanning the darkness wildly. Something roared in the distance, and it was quiet, but it sounded loud in Chanyeol’s ears. He threw up his hands to shield his face, panting desperately. “Soo!”

When nothing happened for several minutes apart from some painful hyperventilation, Chanyeol slowly lowered his hands, looked around. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he could make out shapes now; his desk and chair, his bedside table, his alarm clock. He was in his room. The creaking was probably just his old apartment, the roar was a car on the street below. He was home. 

He called Kyungsoo anyway, heart still beating too fast, stomach still churning nauseously. He had to hear his voice. He had to know he was okay. 

“Hello?” came a groggy voice from his phone speaker. 

Chanyeol let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “Soo,” he said, relief pouring through him. 

“Chanyeol? What’s up? Why are you calling me at...3am.” 

Chanyeol sighed, rubbing his hand over his chest, which still felt tight and achey. “I woke up and had a panic attack when you weren’t here,” he admitted. 

“Oh,” Kyungsoo said, and that was it. He sounded sleepy, and Chanyeol felt bad for waking him up. He knew sleep wasn’t easy for any of them, even still. 

“Sorry,” he said quietly. “You can go back to bed.”

“No, no,” Kyungsoo said immediately. “I’ll come over.”

“You— Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I...I know how you feel. My first reaction when I wake up is always to look for you, too, and it scares me sometimes when you’re not there.”

Chanyeol swallowed hard. “Okay.”

“I’ll be over in like twenty minutes,” Kyungsoo told him, and then he hung up. 

Chanyeol spent the entire twenty minutes trying to slow down his heartbeat, to even out his breathing. The panic was still there, simmering just under his skin, like it was ready to spill out all over again if he let his guard down for even a second. 

He jumped in fear when his doorbell buzzed, patting his chest soothingly when he realized who it was. He answered the door tentatively all the same, ashamed and paranoid. 

“Hey,” Kyungsoo said softly, bundled up in a sweater too large for his frame. He looked up at Chanyeol with warm, concerned eyes. 

“Hey,” Chanyeol whispered, and pulled him in for a hug. 

They stayed that way for a long time, right in Chanyeol’s front door, until Kyungsoo gently pushed Chanyeol to his couch and they sat down together, Kyungsoo tucked up against his side. It was comfortable and warm, and Chanyeol clung to him, breathing in the smell of him. He needed this familiarity.

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel real,” Chanyeol told him quietly, when he’d finally matched his breaths to Kyungsoo’s. 

“The game?” Kyungsoo asked. 

Chanyeol shook his head. “No. That feels _too_ real. Getting out of the game doesn’t.”

Kyungsoo nodded slowly where his head rested against Chanyeol’s shoulder. “Yeah. I know what you mean.” There was a long pause, and then he said, “Sometimes I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m really here. To remember where I am.” Chanyeol heard the click of his throat as he swallowed. “If it hurts, I know it’s real.”

Chanyeol held Kyungsoo against him, burying his nose in soft hair. “I should put a mirror next to my bed,” he said. “The colour of my hair can be my tell.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Kyungsoo told him. 

Several more minutes passed, and finally Chanyeol ventured to say, “Do you want to go to bed?”

“Sure,” Kyungsoo said, and the word turned into a yawn. “Let’s go.”

It was the first time they’d spent the night together since the week following their return from _Paran._ They’d gone three long months waking up alone, only to find out they both struggled with it every morning. 

Chanyeol put a mirror beside his bed the next day.

~~

It’s a hostage situation.

Chanyeol wakes up on a hard tiled floor, head pounding, and opens his eyes to find himself in the small backroom of a store of some sort, surrounded by eleven other people, all white-faced and terrified. There’s a man with a long scar over his eye at the door, leaning against the frame with a gun in his hand, watching him with lazy wariness. Chanyeol’s brain feels sluggish and foggy, but it starts working immediately nonetheless, cataloguing, looking for options, judging how long it would take to get from here to the window, here to the door, what might be in the boxes stacked around the room, what he could use as a weapon. It doesn’t look good. His phone and wallet are gone, his keys are probably still in his wrecked car. Where _is_ he? What’s going on?

He makes eye contact with a few of the people around him, but they’re all silent, wide-eyed and shivering. It’s chilly in the room, sitting on the cold floor. “Hey,” he whispers experimentally, intending to ask what happened. 

The moment he does, though, the man with the scar barks, “ _Quiet_ ,” and someone whimpers, and Chanyeol clicks his mouth shut. “Nobody speaks,” Scarface says harshly, and Chanyeol nods and ducks his head obediently. 

Nobody moves or speaks for several long, breathless moments, and Chanyeol looks around quietly. Most of the people in the room are his age or older, most likely on their way to work like himself, but there’s one little boy sitting with his mother, maybe five years old, looking shell-shocked. One young woman has a leg that’s obviously broken, and another man is cradling his chest like he has some broken ribs, and everyone is battered and bruised, but no one is bleeding out, and Chanyeol is relieved. He knows basic first aid, but he’s not sure if he has the necessary materials to put it to use. 

They sit there for a full hour in absolute silence, and Chanyeol starts to think he’s going to go crazy. He’s not shaking out of his skin, like most of the others in the room, but the silence is getting to him, the not knowing anything, the inactivity. He fidgets on the floor, pressing his fingers into the bruises he can feel on his arms and legs, the incredibly tender spots on his skull, the scabbing cuts on his hands. He wonders what time it is, how long he was out, where he _is._ He thinks, from brief peeks through the door that Scarface stands by, that they’re in a sports store, but that’s all he can gather. Are they even in Seoul anymore? He must be late for work by now, but he doesn’t know if anyone will ever guess that this is where he is. Does anyone even know that the crash on the freeway resulted in a few kidnappings? Does anyone know they’re inside here? 

The silence drags on until, suddenly, a young woman starts crying softly, and then hyperventilating. Chanyeol knows a panic attack when he sees one—is well-acquainted with them—and he jumps into action, ignoring a sharp warning from their guard. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says softly, kneeling in front of her, keeping his voice calm and even. “Shh, deep breaths, okay? Can you take a deep breath? Good, hold it, like that.” He coaxes her face out of her hands, coaches her through slow breathing exercises, murmurs empty reassurances to her that everything is going to be fine, she’s going to be fine. It takes several minutes for her to catch her breath. “Can you tell me your name?” 

The girl stares at him with wide, scared eyes and whispers, breath hitching, “Y-Yoohyun.” 

“Hello Yoohyun. My name is Chanyeol.” He reaches out for her hand and squeezes it gently. “How old are you?”

He doesn’t actually care how old she is, but he knows it’s important to get her thinking about something other than her fear. “Twenty— Twenty-one.”

“Twenty-one, huh. Were you on your way to school?” 

Yoohyun nods shakily, her hand trembling in Chanyeol’s. 

“That’s cool. What do you study?”

“What?” 

Chanyeol smiles softly, encouragingly. “What do you study? I’m interested.”

She blinks at him, but quietly says, “Visual art.”

“Oh, really? That’s so cool. Do you have a specialty? I don’t really know how that kind of thing works.” 

Yoohyun finally seems to realize he’s just trying to get her talking, and she withdraws her hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks, exhaling shakily. She glances up at Scarface to her right, who just watches them with a frown, apparently resigned to letting them talk as long as it keeps them from causing a ruckus. She lowers her voice as she finally says, “I’m a painter.”

“Wow,” Chanyeol says, nodding in awe. “That’s really impressive. I can’t paint at all.” He turns slightly, looks at the man to his right. “What about you?”

It’s the man with the broken ribs, who must be at least forty years old. He grimaces slightly. “Do I look like an artist?”

Chanyeol laughs softly. “No, I mean, what’s your name?”

The man hesitates, then quietly says, “Byun Jungkyun.” 

“I have a friend with that last name,” Chanyeol says amiably. “What do you do, Jungkyun-ssi?”

“I’m in sales,” he says. “At a car dealership.”

“My mom always told me to go into sales,” Chanyeol says. “Because I talk so much.”

Jungkyun smiles slightly, and Chanyeol grins right back. 

He meets every other hostage in the following minutes, one by one. The little boy, Yujin, and his mother, Hyewon, and the girl with the broken leg, Seungmi. Taekhyuk, a 24-year-old accountant, and Eunmi, a 29-year-old hair stylist. Brothers-in-law Dongil and Wonjoong, both 55-year-old bank clerks. Dongmin, the 41-year-old owner of the store. Sangwoo, a 32-year-old restaurant cook, who was in the car behind Chanyeol’s. The others were all on the bus—Chanyeol never meets whoever was in the car in front of his, and he doesn’t ask. 

He really doesn’t want to know, and he doubts anyone wants to talk about it. So he keeps them talking about other things. It’s the least he can do.

~~

Kyungsoo ran their group therapy sessions after the game. He was no expert in the field, especially not at the time, but he was the only one who had any experience at all in therapy, and he was the one who took charge. The others had no complaints there.

They met every week at first, Thursday nights at 7pm in Joonmyun’s parents’ garage, even when Joonmyun himself couldn’t show. It wasn’t always all of them—usually at least one or two couldn’t make it due to late shifts, classes, or other obligations. But they all went as often as they could, pulling folding chairs into a circle and discussing their week, their nights, their fears. Kyungsoo encouraged them to be as open as possible without upsetting themselves, said that it would help themselves and the others to have everything out there in the open. He said it would normalize symptoms, help them not to feel so alone with their problems, and give the opportunity to show support. Group therapy was a safe haven, a place where they could finally be honest about their experiences and encourage each other when things got hard. 

And things _were_ hard. Sehun and Jongin often talked about having recurrent, intrusive thoughts about their experiences in Paran, often out of nowhere, unavoidable and distressing. Zitao described horrifying nightmares that would haunt him for days on end, of all his in-game memories of killing people with his own hands. Yixing admitted that he still had trouble getting close to others. Joonmyun had uncontrollable anxiety every time he went past the Han River. Yifan found himself grieving over a person that didn’t exist, and described feeling guilty whenever he thought about starting a new relationship. Minseok and Luhan still wrestled with an inability to trust each other completely at times. They were all struggling. 

But things got better, over time. The more they talked about their problems, the more they were able to suggest ways to deal with them, to cope. Kyungsoo planned activities some weeks—exercises in journalling about their experiences, days where they painted as they talked, evenings where they each had some sort of soothing activity to do with their hands, like knitting or colouring pages or a Rubik’s cube. Chanyeol enjoyed every session, even when they were hard and they went home with heavy hearts. He liked knowing he had a support group behind him, people who understood what he’d gone through and would be there for him if he needed them. He liked seeing Minseok sit with Sehun and Jongin to help them with their homework, and Yixing and Joonmyun chatting shyly in the corner, and Baekhyun and Jongdae making everyone laugh with their antics. It was nice to see people smiling, even when they were in pain. 

They all broke down sometimes. Chanyeol thinks he’s seen a panic attack or a meltdown from each of them at least once. They’ve all learned to deal with those, too. They know what to say, how to comfort each other. They all paired up, a buddy each—Chanyeol with Kyungsoo, Sehun with Jongin, Minseok with Luhan, Baekhyun with Jongdae, Yixing with Joonmyun, and Zitao with Yifan. But that didn’t mean they didn’t all help each other. Sehun called Chanyeol at work once in the middle of the day, panicking in the bathroom at school, and Chanyeol had met him outside and drove him around until he calmed down. Zitao once showed up at his door and asked if he could study there, because he didn’t want to be alone. Kyungsoo had brought Jongin over to a planned dinner date, and they’d all eaten together, no questions asked. He knew the same went for the others, too—they had a web of support, everyone taking care of everyone else. 

Kyungsoo was all Chanyeol’s, though. His boyfriend had the hardest time with things, and Chanyeol knew it. He’d been in the game the longest, seen the most deaths firsthand, felt the most fear. And he had a hard time opening up in group therapy, because he felt like he should be leading, should be the strong one. He bottled things up too much, and eventually it would all spill over, and Chanyeol would hold him for hours, asking Kyungsoo trivial questions about his schooling, his family, what he would name his dog if he could get one. Anything to keep his mind off of the painful memories swirling around his head. Rambling was something Chanyeol was good at, and he learned how to keep calm, too, how to soothe with the tone of his voice and the steady thump of his heart. 

They learned to cope.

~~

Scarface tosses a single water bottle to them after two hours of them sitting there on the floor, and they pass it around, each taking a sip until it’s gone. They whisper over it, casting furtive glances at the door; Chanyeol gets filled in bit by bit on what happened on the bus that crashed into them. The gunmen had been on it, too—two of them, Scarface and one other. The details are hazy, but the other hostages tell him they’d stood up in the middle of the trip and tried to overpower the driver, resulting in more swerving than they’d apparently counted on. After crashing, whatever the original plans had been must have changed, because they’d had to herd all the other victims onto the bus and then drive to wherever they are now. They don’t mention addresses, for fear of Scarface deciding they can’t talk anymore. All Chanyeol knows is that the other gunman is in the front of the store, trying to negotiate with police over the phone, apparently about a buddy he has in jail that he thinks should be set free, in exchange for twelve hostages.

It sounds insane, but then again, you have to be kind of insane to take hostages in the first place.

Several more hours pass, agonizingly slowly, and they don’t go particularly smoothly. Little Yujin starts crying, and that sets off Yoohyun crying again, and Dongil starts muttering threateningly, which earns him several barked threats from their guard. The gun gets waved around, and that makes Yujin cry even harder, despite his mother’s and Chanyeol’s best efforts to soothe him. This goes on for some twenty minutes, and everyone starts getting panicky and agitated. Chanyeol’s panic mode instincts start kicking in again, and they’re utterly unhelpful—trying to figure out a puzzle that doesn’t exist, trying to convince himself that this isn’t a game, it isn’t going to be that straightforward. Jungkyun snaps at Yujin to shut up, and Yoohyun starts crying for a third time. 

“ _Quiet!_ ” Scarface snarls. 

“You’ll have to let us go eventually,” Wonjoong speaks up, standing. “You can’t keep us here forever.”

“Sit down!” Scarface commands sharply. “Sit down and shut up!”

“Sit down!” Yoohyun cries desperately. 

Yujin wails. 

“Shut up your damn kid,” Scarface snaps. 

“He’s scared!” Hyewon says. 

“You have to let us out!” Wonjoong insists. “This is unlawful!”

The gun going off startles several screams out of their group, and Chanyeol can’t be sure that one of them isn’t his. They all fall dead silent, and then Hyewon cries, “Yujin-ah!”

For a sickening moment, Chanyeol thinks the little boy is dead, but then he looks over and sees that the blood is seeping out of a wound in his leg as Yujin looks at it in horror. His pantleg is scarlet in a moment. “Oh my god,” Chanyeol breathes. 

Things go kind of blurry at the edges for a few moments as Chanyeol leaps into instinctive action. His sweater is off in a second, even as he hears someone throwing up in the background, and someone else bursting into tears. Chanyeol lifts Yujin’s foot into his lap; the bullet wound is in his calf, and it seems to have gone straight through. Wrapping the short leg in his bulky sweater, he presses on it firmly, trying to remember what he knows about bleeding wounds. Staunch the flow, elevate it, try to stop blood loss. Make sure the person who’s bleeding is warm, keep shock from setting in. 

“I need someone’s coat,” Chanyeol says, looking around wildly. “Sangwoo, yours.”

The older man doesn’t argue, shrugging off his heavy coat and handing it over. Chanyeol drapes it over Yujin’s small frame, tucking it around his body and then putting his hands back on the bleeding leg. It’s already soaking through his sweater, and he presses harder, gritting his teeth. “You’re okay, Yujinnie,” he says quietly, calmly. “It’s not too bad, buddy. Can you talk to me or your mom?”

“Can you say something, sweety?” Hyewon says shakily, holding Yujin’s head in her lap and stroking his hair. 

“It hurts,” Yujin whispers, eyes wet and wide. 

“I know, baby, but nice Chanyeollie is going to make it better for you.” She looks up at Chanyeol uncertainly, and Chanyeol nods. “He’s going to make sure it’s okay.”

“You’ll be alright,” Chanyeol tells him, doing his best to sound calm and confident. He glances over at Scarface, who stares at them, looking slightly rattled. Chanyeol doesn’t think he meant to hit anyone. He’s not even sure if he aimed anywhere near them; the bullet might have ricocheted. 

“You all be quiet,” the guard warns quietly, then turns and calls over the man in the other room to have a quick, hushed conversation. Chanyeol only catches snatches of it, but from what he does hear, negotiations aren’t going well, and both men are growing frustrated. 

“Just keep them quiet,” the negotiator, a man with tattoos up his forearms and neck, says gruffly, and then he turns around and leaves again. 

The bleeding seems to stop after a few more minutes, and Chanyeol lets Taehyuk take over holding the makeshift bandages to it. Sighing, he sits back and closes his eyes for a few seconds, then opens them to see his hands stained dark red with blood. It doesn’t really bother him. Blood is nothing to him anymore. Gunshot wounds are nothing. Chanyeol once burned poison out of his own body.

~~

After getting out of the game, Kyungsoo was obsessed with pain, and Chanyeol was too used to ignoring it. It made sense, of course. Kyungsoo had gone two years, in-game, without feeling anything other than gentle pressure. And Chanyeol had spent two weeks pushing through wounds and injuries because he knew they’d heal up in a minute or two. Having that taken away from them all of a sudden had been a shock that had taken some time to get used to.

It was a dangerous thing for both of them. Chanyeol could understand, to a point, Kyungsoo’s need to _feel_ something. But that didn’t make it any less worrisome when his boyfriend stared at his hands in silent wonder as he pressed the sharp tip of a pencil into the pad of his thumb, eventually hard enough to draw blood, or when he sat close enough to a space heater that his skin would get red and raw, or when he would repeatedly slap a ruler against the tops of his thighs, over and over, just to feel the sharp sting of it. “I’m just getting used to it,” Kyungsoo would say, smiling reassuringly. “It’s nice, in a morbid sort of way.”

“Just don’t let it become a habit,” Chanyeol had said in reply, holding onto Kyungsoo’s hand, gently taking away whatever he was using that time. He’d known people in high school who drew blood to cope with things. He didn’t want that to happen to Kyungsoo. They had enough problems as it was.

Thankfully, the habit _had_ passed, but the two of them were still a dangerous pair. Chanyeol frequently ignored cuts and scrapes and strained muscles for too long, until someone pointed out that he was bleeding or about to collapse. Kyungsoo often forgot to be careful to avoid painful situations, letting himself get hit by things before remembering that he’d feel it now. In that first year back, both of them sustained a number of minor injuries that they would have otherwise been able to avoid. 

Worried about them both, Jongdae had finally given them a crash course on first aid, running them through emergency treatments for everything from cuts to sprains to third degree burns. Chanyeol learned how to properly give mouth-to-mouth and what to do in the event of a real, actual poisonous snake bite. 

“When the hell am I going to need to know how to treat severe bleeding?” Chanyeol asked, rolling his eyes as Jongdae handed him and Kyungsoo pamphlets. “That’s what we have hospitals for.”

Jongdae rolled his eyes. “It’s not about when you’ll use it,” he said. “It’s about being _aware_. You need to realize that serious injuries _exist_ in the real world.”

“We could be making out right now,” Chanyeol muttered, and Kyungsoo laughed. 

“Read the pamphlet, Chanyeol.”

And Chanyeol had, still dubious.

~~

More hours pass in the back of the store. At least, Chanyeol thinks they do. It’s funny, how no one is wearing a watch. Everyone relies on phones these days, and those were taken away. But it feels like hours are passing, and it’s getting dark outside their window. Yujin wanders in and out of consciousness, and his mother begs quietly for medical attention. People take turns trying to keep him awake, keep him talking, but he’s drowsy and shivering and spaced-out. Seungmi, with the broken leg, pleads for help as well, as if it might help their case. Scarface ignores them all.

They get another water bottle after a while, but hunger quickly becomes an issue. Chanyeol doesn’t know how long it’s been since he ate breakfast, but he only had half a bowl of cereal before throwing it up, and it must be late afternoon now at least. His stomach growls loudly, and he knows he’s not the only one. 

“I brought a lunch,” Dongmin says eventually, when it becomes clear that their lack of food is not going to be a bargaining chip in their release. “It’s on my desk.”

Scarface hesitates, looking up from where he’s leaning against the wall. Then he calls out to his partner. “Hey,” he says. “Bring the owner’s lunch.”

A few minutes pass, and then they’re handed an apple, two sandwiches, a packaged pastry, and a muffin. The twelve of them attack the tiny meal eagerly, splitting it up between them, careful not to spill any crumbs. Chanyeol gets two bites of sandwich, a piece of muffin, a nibble off the apple. It hardly does anything to sate his hunger, maybe even makes it worse, but he knows he needs it all the same. 

He thinks about Kyungsoo in the meantime, and his family. Worries about them. He can’t die here today. None of them will be able to handle another death. 

_If this were a game,_ his brain says, _what would you do?_

It’s a niggling thought at the back of his mind, the entire time he’s sitting there. He takes care of any emergency situations; he soothes others when they begin to panic, he deals with wounds as much as he can. Then he strategizes. He assesses. What would he use as a weapon. What would he say. What would he do to give himself the best chance of making it out alive. 

Several times throughout the day, he hears sirens, but no one comes in, and no guns go off. He assumes they’re being used as threats—if anyone tries to get in, the hostages will die. And maybe it’s true. Maybe they really will shoot them, if the situation grows dire enough. 

Time passes hazily, uneventful and numbing. Exhaustion begins to weigh heavy on Chanyeol’s eyelids and limbs. He tries to guess how long he’s been in this room, shivering on the cold tile floor in just a t-shirt. Twelve hours, he thinks at first. Then, no, the sun has been down for a while. He must have gotten here at 8:30 at the latest; it’s probably past midnight now. He’s tired and in pain, but that’s a feeling he’s still familiar with. It’s been over a year, but he hasn’t forgotten. That’s not something you just forget. 

He doesn’t give up hope. 

Negotiations continue to go badly. Scarface snaps at them every time they try to speak, regardless of what they say. Threats fall from his mouth, but Chanyeol doesn’t take any of them really seriously until Tattoos quietly says, “I don’t think they’re going to give in. We might have to put on a demonstration to scare them.” His eyes cut sideways to the hostages, and Chanyeol gulps. 

Even if the original intent wasn’t to kill, desperation makes people do crazy things. 

It’s serious after that. Chanyeol doesn’t think they have that much time. Scarface steps out to speak with Tattoos in private, just for a few moments, and Chanyeol shifts over to get a good look through the open door. 

There’s nothing to be used as a weapon at the cashier’s desk, which is the closest to the back room door. The front windows have been covered and closed off by a gate, but between here and there are shelves of sports equipment. Hockey sticks, tennis racquets, lacrosse sticks. They’re not guns, but they’re something. 

A minute later, Scarface comes back in and says, “They’ve agreed to give us some supplies. We’re using one of you as a human shield.” 

Chanyeol doesn’t know if that’s true. He doesn’t know if _human shield_ actually means _we’re going to kill you out there, just to show that we can and will._ It doesn’t matter. 

“You,” the guard says, pointing to Hyewon, Yujin’s mother. “Come with me.”

“Her son needs her,” Chanyeol says immediately, hands flying up in supplication. “I’ll do it.” Gears are whirring in his mind, formulating, strategizing. He tries his best to look terrified. 

Scarface looks him over, then shrugs. “Whatever,” he says, and gestures with his gun for Chanyeol to stand up. 

Tattoos is standing in front of the door, fiddling with the locks. Scarface slides behind Chanyeol and presses the muzzle of his gun into Chanyeol’s back, pushing him forward into the store. Chanyeol walks obediently, eyes roving over his surroundings, muscles tensing. He clears the cashier desk, then fakes a stumble. Scarface, grip as tight as it is on his arm, jerks forward with him. Chanyeol jumps at the opportunity. 

He twists quickly, hissing as the gun goes off and burns a streak down his stomach, but doesn’t break skin. He gets a hand around the guard’s wrist, twists it away, and elbows the older man hard in the gut. 

“Hey!” Tattoos yells, but Chanyeol doesn’t listen to him. With hands strengthened by desperation, he shoves Scarface’s wrist back, and the gun drops. Chanyeol kicks at it instinctively, and it skids across the floor, disappearing underneath a shelf. Chanyeol lunges after it, but not to grab it—he wrenches a hockey stick off the shelf and spins, bringing the blunt end down hard on Scarface’s head. The stick breaks with a sickening _thwack_ , and the man falls. 

“Hey!” Tattoos yells again, and another shot rings out. This one grazes Chanyeol along his shoulder, right through his t-shirt, but it doesn’t hit bone. It’s nothing to Chanyeol. 

He moves again, grabbing wildly, and ends up with an aluminum lacrosse stick in his hands. It’s sturdier than the hockey stick, heavier. Closer to what Chanyeol is used to, from his sword. He ducks behind a shelf of baseballs and hockey pads, and another shot misses him by a good foot. Another two shots, another two misses. Chanyeol’s barely even fazed. He’s been shot at before. He knows what to do. 

He takes one deep breath, then jams his stick under his arm and grabs two hardballs from a basket. 

He doesn’t have time to strategize in this situation. A game boss is programmed with a fight sequence, a pattern, but this is a real person he’s up against. A desperate, possibly insane person, with a gun that could kill Chanyeol in one shot. He peeks through the holes in the shelving, sees where Tattoos is running towards the far end of his aisle, and winds up. 

The first ball hits Tattoos solidly in the chest, making him wheeze. The second misses, but the third hits his arm, right where Chanyeol was aiming, and the man’s hands drop, the gun now pointing at the floor. It’s all the opportunity Chanyeol needs. He leaps forward, stick swinging, and slams the side of the handle first into Tattoos’ trigger hand, then up and around to his head. The gun goes off again, but it ricochets off the floor and hits a light above them, which shatters. Glass falls around them, and Chanyeol barely even notices. Tattoos is staggering, but his gun falls to the floor, and Chanyeol spins his stick around to give him a solid whack to the left temple. The man takes an unsteady step forward, eyes crossed, then falls. 

Chanyeol feels victorious for all of two seconds before the flat end of a hockey stick catches him around the side of the face, splitting his lip. He stumbles against the shelves, knocking several things loose, then whirls around with his stick already up to block a second attack. Scarface wasn’t as unconscious as Chanyeol thought, apparently, because now he’s re-armed and wild-eyed. 

“Fuck,” Chanyeol breathes, parrying a clumsy blow and jumping back, tripping over one of the baseballs he threw earlier. 

“I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch,” Scarface growls, bleeding from a wound on his cheek.

“I’ve heard that one before,” Chanyeol says, and finally gets his feet under him and launches himself forward for a counterattack. 

He’s rather pleased by the look of fear in Scarface’s eyes when Chanyeol makes his first swing at him. It only hits his arm, and not even hard enough to make him drop his weapon, but it has to hurt, and Chanyeol likes that. The lacrosse stick isn’t exactly like his sword—it’s not sharp, and thrusting will do little more than bruise—but it’s a similar weight and feel in his hands, and Chanyeol feels in control. Chanyeol was never a master swordsman in terms of technique, but he knows how to handle a blade, he knows how to look for weak spots, he knows how to think on his feet and make split-second decisions. 

Scarface clearly isn’t trained in close-range combat, but he puts up one hell of a fight, his stick whistling through the air and knocking things off of shelves. His movements are jerky and desperate, and Chanyeol fends them off with a similar knowledge of _if I don’t win this, I’m dead._ His heart is rabbiting and he’s getting hit, along his knuckles and in the stomach and on his side, but his hands are sure and steady. He blocks, blocks again, stumbles back, and then feigns right and swings left. The handle of his stick catches Scarface’s jaw, and he loses his footing. 

Chanyeol jumps forward, yanks the hockey stick out of weak fingers, and manages to get Scarface onto the ground, belly-down and one arm twisted behind him, Chanyeol’s knee between his shoulderblades. The man’s free arm darts out, and Chanyeol smacks it with the shaft of his stick, just inches away from the gun that had been kicked under the shelves. Chanyeol scoops it up with the basket of his lacrosse stick and holds it between his hands, flicking the safety before pointing it straight at the man’s head. It’s a different shape and weight from his blasters, but Chanyeol feels at home with it nonetheless. “Don’t you dare move, asshole,” he grits out. 

The door to the shop bursts open several tense seconds later, and a team of officers pours in, guns at the ready. Chanyeol drops his, far out of reach of the man on the ground, and stands, relief washing through him. “Thank god,” he breathes. 

He knows he must look a sight. He’s bleeding from several different injuries; the gunshot wound along his shoulder, his lip, his nose from a blow he doesn’t even remember. There’s blood in his mouth, and he’s not even sure where it’s from. He’s standing over two prone bodies on the floor, lacrosse stick in his hands, and he’s panting, spitting blood. The police stare at him. “Sir, are you okay?”

Chanyeol blinks at them. “I’m fine. But there’s a boy in the back with a bullet wound, and a few broken bones. Please attend to them first.” 

Several officers dart into the back room, and the others descend upon the two men at Chanyeol’s feet, handcuffing them efficiently. Chanyeol watches in silence until someone comes along to usher him out amidst a wave of chaos. 

His gaze zeroes in on Kyungsoo the moment he steps out of the store, standing beside the ambulance that Chanyeol is being pushed towards. “Soo,” Chanyeol says, reaching for him. 

“Chanyeol!” Kyungsoo pushes forward to meet him, face ashen and eyes wide, hair a mess, clothes rumpled. “Chanyeol, oh my god. We heard gunshots, we—” He crashes into Chanyeol forcefully, arms winding around his middle, pressing his whole body up against him. 

Chanyeol hugs him back tightly, ignoring the paramedic trying to pull him away. “Soo,” he murmurs, holding on. “Hi.”

Kyungsoo is obviously crying where he’s pressing his face against Chanyeol’s chest, and that hurts, _seriously_ , Chanyeol thinks every inch of his body is bruised, but he doesn’t complain. “Hi,” Kyungsoo hiccups, squeezing him tighter. 

“Chanyeol!”

Chanyeol turns his head at another familiar voice, and sees his mom and sister shoving their way through the milling crowd towards him. 

“Mom,” Chanyeol says, holding out an arm for her. “Noona.”

They both swoop in on him without giving Kyungsoo the option of pulling away, wrapping their arms around the both of them. Chanyeol holds them all against him, breathing in familiar scents, letting a huge smile steal across his face. 

“—please step away, we need to check on him,” a paramedic is saying, and after another minute of fierce hugging, Chanyeol’s family and boyfriend move away from him enough that he can be dragged towards the back of an ambulance. 

“You got _shot?_ ” Kyungsoo says incredulously as Chanyeol’s shirt is stripped off and his bleeding wound is revealed. 

“I’m okay,” Chanyeol says, but he notices for the first time that his vision is going hazy. “Just...tired.”

“We need to take him in to the hospital,” the paramedic says. “He has some minor injuries, he may be going into shock, and he’s also dehydrated.”

“I hate hospitals,” Chanyeol groans. 

Kyungsoo catches his hand and holds it, eyes wet and worried. “We’ll be right there, Yeollie.”

“Well,” Chanyeol mutters, suddenly so exhausted he can barely keep his eyes open. He’s definitely crashing. “Okay then.”

That’s pretty much all he remembers. 

 

He wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later, on his back in a hospital bed with an IV attached to his arm and Kyungsoo beside his bed, scrolling through his phone in the semi-darkness of the room. Chanyeol can’t help but smile. “Hey,” he whispers. 

Kyungsoo jumps, staring at him. “You’re awake.”

Chanyeol hums. “Yeah,” he says groggily. His brain is waking up slowly, remembering the events of the previous day, processing them. “How long was I out?”

Instead of responding, Kyungsoo dives down to kiss him, long and deep. Chanyeol makes a surprised noise at first, then relaxes into it, tilting his chin up to reciprocate. Kyungsoo’s lips are warm and humid against Chanyeol’s, which are dry and scabbed over, and it kind of hurts to press their mouths together, but quite frankly, Chanyeol doesn’t care. He lifts the hand that doesn’t have an IV in it—but does have three of his fingers splinted together, go figure—and threads it into Kyungsoo’s thick hair, humming softly. Kyungsoo doesn’t nip like he usually would, is careful not to suck on Chanyeol’s split lower lip, but he kisses him for a long time all the same, like he can’t get enough. Dizzy with pleasure and what might be the aftereffects of a concussion, Chanyeol would say the same. 

Finally, Kyungsoo pulls away, panting. “Your mom and sister were here,” he says. “They went to get some food. How are you feeling?”

Chanyeol smiles lazily up at him and shrugs. “Tired. Kinda hazy. What a wild day.”

Kyungsoo laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, no kidding. Baekhyun called me, said he thought he saw your car on the news in an accident. Turns out you weren’t just in a crash, but _taken hostage._ ” 

Chanyeol reaches up, runs his bandaged fingers across Kyungsoo’s cheek clumsily. “Sorry you were worried.”

“ _Worried_ is putting it a bit mildly. More like _scared out of my mind._ ” 

“Felt less scary than it was,” Chanyeol says with a shrug, letting his hand drop back to his mattress, his arm weak. 

Kyungsoo stares at him for a long minute, like he’s measuring his words carefully, or just unsure what to say. “They have footage from the security cameras,” he says at last, slowly. “I saw what you did.”

Chanyeol blinks, his brain taking a moment to catch up. “What did I do?”

“You stayed calm throughout the whole thing, even after you’d just woken up,” Kyungsoo says, eyes wide and serious. “You helped the others get through it. You were a fucking badass. You beat the shit out of two armed criminals.”

Chanyeol smiles vaguely. “Bunch of amateurs. I’m a way better shot than they are.”

Kyungsoo laughs weakly, disbelievingly, shaking his head. “You’re a goddamn hero, Park Chanyeol.”

“’S the only thing I’m good at.” Chanyeol grins crookedly, careful not to pull at his lip. “I did what I had to do to get out of there. Just like last time.”

Kyungsoo sighs, face falling again. “I thought I was going to lose you. Again.”

“Never,” Chanyeol says immediately, shaking his head. He reaches up a second time, cradles Kyungsoo’s cheek. “Had to get out of there alive to talk to you. Had to fix things.”

Kyungsoo looks at him and his eyes are shiny with moisture, his throat bobbing. 

“Didn’t want my last words to you to be angry,” Chanyeol says seriously. His arm trembles with the effort of keeping it raised, but he keeps it there anyway. “I didn’t tell you that I love you.”

Kyungsoo swallows hard, blinking quickly. “You left early because of me,” he whispers. 

“Don’t,” Chanyeol says, tone forceful. “Kyungsoo, don’t. I’m fine, everyone’s fine, none of this was your fault. Nothing has ever been your fault.”

Kyungsoo squeezes his eyes shut, leaning into his hand and lifting his own to keep it there. “I keep having nightmares,” he says quietly. “About my past heroes dying. And you dying. I hardly sleep. I had a really bad night yesterday. I was tired and upset about the game and I felt useless and guilty and I got mad at you even though you didn’t do anything. I was awful. I’m always awful.”

Chanyeol lets their joined hands fall to Kyungsoo’s lap, across his own chest. “You should have told me.”

Kyungsoo looks away. “I felt stupid,” he says, voice soft. “You don’t struggle with things nearly as much as I do.”

“I have nightmares too, you know,” Chanyeol tells him. “All the time. And I was only there for two weeks, Kyungsoo. I didn’t lose anyone. You’re—you’re allowed to struggle with this. You’re allowed to have posttraumatic stress about it. You’re allowed to still be hurting.” He squeezes Kyungsoo’s hand tighter. “But I wish you would tell me about it.”

Kyungsoo nods slowly, swallowing. “I was so scared for you,” he whispers. 

“So was I,” Chanyeol says. 

“You didn’t look scared. In the footage.”

“I was terrified.” And he was, deep down. “Not everyone expresses themselves in the same way, Soo. I make jokes and I bottle things up on instinct to react to later. I react to stress by strategizing, because I still think I’m in a fucking video game. And I’m probably going to have a massive panic attack about this later, and you’re going to bring me down from it, because you always do.” He looks up into Kyungsoo’s eyes, jaw set. “You always save me.” 

Kyungsoo holds his stare for a long moment, then nods and leans forward to run his hand through Chanyeol’s hair. He dips down to kiss him again, soft and sweet. “I’ll always save you.”

“I know,” Chanyeol whispers. Then, because he missed his chance before, and because it’s true, he says, “I love you.”

Kyungsoo smiles, heartbreaking and brave all at the same time. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for: violence, psychological stress, mental and emotional aftereffects of being stuck in a video game.


End file.
